“Two,” screamed a bearded man as he frenetically scratched at his armpits. “Eleven,” shrieked his bald neighbour, decked out in a grey shalwar kameez, his frayed cuffs sweeping the floor every time he gestured.

“Chee, chee,” chirped three sparrows, perched on the convoluted branches of a pippal tree. “What’s wrong with you, Butt sahib?” asked a newcomer, a grass stain decorating his clothes, a frown wrinkling his forehead.

The mood was intense, the competition fierce, and each player a professional in his own right. Penny-sized beetles scurried up the legs of the players, and were ignored. A scrawny kitten mewed hungrily but no one paid heed. All eyes were focused on the six seashells in Butt sahib’s hands. He sat on one side of the red and black chequered cross, sweat trickling down his forehead, a slight tremble in his fingers as he shook the six shells. The stakes must be high for him to be so worried, I thought. What was he competing for – money or fame? None of the above. Butt sahib was fighting boredom, along with the rest of the onlookers.

Badar Muneer Butt wasn’t always bored. When he was 10, school, cricket and street fights kept him busy. At 20, he was married and helping out at his family’s shop. At 30, he had children and his own shop. By the time he was 40, his children were married and there was nothing left for him to do. So for the last 20 years, his son has been taking care of his shop, while he devotes his days and sometimes nights to playing chaupat. “Sometimes I miss a funeral because the game hasn’t ended,” said Butt. His partner added, “I am always late to weddings because of chaupat.”

Almost all the players seated around the mat were over 40, retired from their businesses and grandfathers to many. Unable to read newspapers, bored with their wives, not needed by their children, they spend weekdays, and weekends, Eid and New Year’s, rolling seashells and cheering their teams. “The game never stops,” said Butt sahib, “not when it’s rain, and not even when it’s Ramadan.”

Chaupat seems like a more complicated version of Ludo. Instead of one dice, six seashells are rolled. A piece of canvas (patched and faded in this case) serves as the rolling area, and a red and black checked cross as the playing area. The orientation of the seashells determines the score, which can lie anywhere between one and 12. But to start the game you either need an eight or an eleven, and this was where Butt was facing problems.

Despite the cheers of his supporters, and constant cries of Inshallah, every time he rolled the shells, he either got a six or a seven. “What’s wrong Butt sahib?” asked the man who after scratching his right armpit had begun on the left one. “Butt sahib, what happened?” asked the eldest in the group, whose ring glinted with a fake glow.

What had happened to Butt sahib is a question his wife too often pondered over. Why would a man who had spent his life working hard at his shop lose interest in it altogether? Why would he prefer hanging out in a park, in the heart of summer, to sitting at home? His wife sometimes wondered about this game, but had never been invited to see it. “Our wives and children aren’t allowed to come here,” said Butt, as he rubbed his nose, and shook the shells in his hand. All the players adhere to this dictate, and insist that their families stay away from the park.

“It’s too difficult a game for women,” said one. “It’s a waste of time,” piped up another. A harsh cough broke through the babble. Butt wanted to speak. “I want my family and children to do better things,” he said. “I’m addicted to this game, they should stay away from it.” A moment’s silence greeted this statement. “There is nothing wrong with being addicted to this game,” piped up the owner of a jewellery shop who had recently joined the gathering, “this is a game of kings.”

There is some truth in this belief. Chaupat has for long been associated with royalty, and legend has it that the game was brought to the sub-continent by the Mughal emperors. Though it is still very popular in India, in Pakistan there are only a handful of Butt sahibs. Holy Bagh near Rang Mahal Chowk is one of the few places where you can still hear these cries: